


Something Good Can Work

by tasteofhysteria



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Big Brothers, Gen, The Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofhysteria/pseuds/tasteofhysteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“For as socially awkward as his brothers were, they were at least not growing up in a world that was too old for them.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Good Can Work

He’d spent the night restlessly, rearranging his limbs (that were _just_  beginning to approach the awkward gangly stage that heralded the arrival of the final stages of puberty, as if he wanted to deal with all that fucking nonsense after three decades of it) in perhaps thousands of different positions on his narrow bed to try and lull himself to sleep. He curled into the dip in the mattress that had been worn there both by his body and England’s unwillingness to replace the damn bed until it broke underneath him or rusted away or both.  
  
(He thought maybe Jersey and Scotland had a running bet going about the whole thing.)  
  
When sleep stubbornly didn’t come, he’d rolled to the floor and had taken up his game system’s controller, blowing through level upon level of Left 4 Dead while staring at his telly upside-down and flat on his back. The sound of screaming and gunfire eventually just made him feel sort of twitchy as the hour grew later and he still didn’t feel any closer to tiredness.  
  
He’d paced, planted himself in his computer chair and spun in circles until he’d wanted to relive supper, dug through his dresser drawers restlessly and had uncovered a sticky packet of ancient Maltesers and a foil-covered condom from 2003 that he hastily chucked in the bin, remembering the painfully expressionless face that Wales had forced on after losing out in a rigged game of rock-paper-scissors between him and England and Scotland to see who would have to give North “The Talk”.  
  
It went about as anyone could expect; highly uncomfortable and with much cringing and long awkward pauses interrupted by Wales clearing his throat and forcing himself to continue until North begged Wales to either shut the fuck up or let him kill himself in the loo. Wales had left in an offended huff after that, loudly complaining about North’s ungratefulness in his passive-aggressive way until Scotland told him to shut up and stop interrupting the Archers with his whinging.  
  
(It seemed to North himself that he didn’t much need this Talk anyway, seeing as nobody ever had or debatably ever would express interest in him. But fortunately enough, everything seemed to be working properly, though he’d only ever tested it on solo-flights.)

  
Freshly reminded of old family trauma, North poked about his room some more, building a shaky tower out of abandoned drink cans and knocking it over repeatedly until the shining tin of the cans reminded him of the Titanic museum back home and the new exhibit that just opened in commemoration of the 100th anniversary. He cringed and kicked the cans under the bed for England to discover later when he inevitably came around to tidy up and berate North for living in such a sty.  
  
Remembering the anniversary had put North in the mind to remember his own; it was coming up in a fortnight and the thought put him in such a foul mood that he tromped downstairs (much more quietly than he would have in the daylight hours) to rummage in the kitchen as a distraction. A quick look in the refrigerator uncovered a lidded pot of what was called “spaghetti” in the Kirkland home but was referred to as “complete shit noodles in cheap Heinz tomato sauce” in any other. He picked up the pot, pleased to note it felt mostly full (and probably not scorched, since he seemed to recall Wales boiling the noodles and not England) and took it with him out to the den, hooking a probably-clean fork from the drying rack by the sink on his way out.  
  
He settled himself on the sofa cross-legged and clicked the telly on with the remote, placing the pot of cold pasta across his knobby knees and tucking into it as a rerun of Top Gear played out silently, with captions flashing across the bottom of the screen.

  
And either he hadn’t been as quiet as he thought or England had a sixth sense for people disturbing his kitchen at its designated hours of non-operation (or both), because he heard the unmistakable whine of England’s bedroom door creaking open on its old hinges and the sound of slipper-clad feet on the stairs before—  
  
“Dear  _God_ , North, at least go around with some trousers on.”  
  
“I’m wearing boxers for fuck’s sake,” North snapped back indignantly, lifting the pot from his lap to prove that he was indeed not in the habit of wandering about starkers (though the same could not be said for Wales, when he visited).  
  
England said nothing in response, instead continuing his descent down the stairway as if it required all his concentration. He came to stand behind North, leaning slightly against the back of the sofa and letting his hand rest on North's head, running his fingers through the dark auburn curls even as the boy rolled his eyes in typical teenage disgust.  
  
“All right then, poppet?” England asked in a raspy, sleep-hazy voice.  
  
North stared down at the crockery balanced on his knees and the glow of the telly in his peripheral, thinking about how he was turning ninety one in a fortnight and how that seemed pretty momentous to him though it’d be not even the piss of a drop in the bucket to any of his brothers, about all the things he’d thought and not said because they sounded better in his head and saying them aloud would only earn him a smack upside the head and a command to stop whinging, and that for as socially awkward as his brothers (with the sole exception of Ireland, the bastard) were that they were at least not growing up in a world that was too old for them.  
  
“…yeah,” he said at last. “Fucking peachy.”  
  
His only response was a sleepy hum as the fingers in his hair grew more and more idle and the weight of England’s head on his shoulder grew heavier and heavier, pinning him in place for the foreseeable future.


End file.
